


First Past the Post

by LittleMousling, moogle62



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: First Time, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Iowa era, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Political Campaigns, Premature Ejaculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 17:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13505916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: If Jon Favreau, casual sex enthusiast, had a Yelp page, he’d have a 5-star average. He never thought he’d wreck that streak when it really mattered.





	First Past the Post

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [laliandra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laliandra) for betaing!

Tommy rarely misses Chicago. The best parts of it are in Iowa, too, at least sometimes: the core campaign team, the Senator. Jon. 

Jon always stays with him when he’s in Iowa, and it’s like the best sleepovers from middle school, every time. Tonight’s no exception. They’re sprawled across Tommy’s bed like always, papers and laptops and their Blackberries, but mostly paper and more paper and too many pens getting lost in the comforter folds. 

Tommy’s helping Jon punch up jokes, mostly. Jon’s helping Tommy feel like Chicago’s come to visit him.

It’s getting late—well, it’s been late for a while—and they split a bottle of wine, which always makes Tommy feel nostalgic and not a little bit horny. It’s natural, he thinks, to let his mind meander down the path of _when was someone last in my bed for real_ when Jon’s up against the headboard with a pen between his teeth, looking like Jon always looks. 

Unlike Jon, he doesn’t pick up well. In college it was easier; he dated his friends, slept with people from his classes. Now ... it’s been a while. The last time he even tried, he and Jon went to a bar in Chicago, where Jon barely had to grin at a woman to get her excited to go home with him. Tommy took a cab home by himself. 

"Must be nice to be so—" he says out loud, like a fucking moron, regretting it instantly. Jon looks up, pen still in the corner of his mouth. 

"What?"

"Uh—" Tommy’s too tired to come up with an easy lie. "The—nothing. Just thinking."

Jon isn’t buying it, and Tommy can see he’s in one of those moods, that he wants to get to the bottom of things: the changing mind of the electorate; the best cheesesteak in Des Moines; what Tommy was going to say.

"Come on," Jon says, drawing it out. "I want to know."

Of course he wants to know; he wants to know everything.

"Just," Tommy says, "it must be nice to be so—to pick up. So easily. Like, the way you do." There is no way on earth he can play this off, play this cool, but he shrugs one shoulder like maybe he can.

Jon doesn't let up, is the thing, so it's usually easier just to tell him what he wants to know when he gets like this, intent on something. It's a lot, when he's intent on you.

Jon looks—too earnest, too focused. "You could pick up! You’re—" he gestures, hand motioning up and down Tommy’s body, and Tommy feels a blush rising that he can’t control. "You know, hot!"

Tommy shakes his head. "I mean—no, but also I’m not, like. Smooth. I’ve only really dated people I already know. Even, uh, casual things. Friends with benefits, that’s always been my—you know. And I don’t know anyone out here except my staff and, like, Axe, so—"

"Axe could get it," Jon says, grinning. "That mustache, I mean."

Tommy smacks him with the nearest legal pad, hoping that’s changed the subject.

Jon puts his arms up, laughing; the pen falls out of his mouth. "Like, even without a mustache, Tom, you could—you're really—"

It's Jon's turn to stop talking. Tommy says, pushing, "What? I'm really what?"

"You're, like," Jon says, and he lowers his arms, bites his lip. Tommy wonders vaguely if this works on a lot of girls, the way Favs can switch so easily and without any disingenuity between cocky and shy. Tommy's noticed it before, in passing. "Like—I would."

Tommy laughs, hears how much it betrays his—nerves, his—how ridiculous that is. "Yeah, okay. Thanks for the pep talk. I think you’re a little outside my, like, league." He laughs again, forcing it out. 

Jon looks earnest again, which is just— _ugh_. Attractive, is maybe the word. "Tommy, seriously, you’re hot," he says, and Tommy looks down, looks away, stares at his hands. "Tommy—"

The bed shifts, and then there are fingertips on his jaw.

Tommy startles, looks up on instinct. Jon is there, kneeling just in front of him, a sheet of paper crinkling under his knee. "Seriously," Jon says again, and tilts Tommy's chin up with just a touch of pressure. "I mean it, you're really—"

Tommy thinks, _this is how he does it_ , and then, because he's exhausted and it's impossible to misread this situation and because Jon is beautiful and the first person to touch him like that in months, he leans forward, and presses his mouth, dry, to Jon's.

Jon makes this _sound_ , this "yes, let’s" little sound that seems like it must seal some deals for him, too. It makes Tommy feel—safe, like Jon really wants this, really wants him. It makes him feel sexy. 

"We should—move the paper," Tommy mumbles. Jon’s hand is on the back of his neck, fingers in Tommy’s hair.

"Yeah," Jon says, but neither of them move to do anything about it. Jon's mouth is warm and he kisses like he really knows what he's doing. Tommy does not feel like he knows what he's doing, keeps waiting for someone at work to notice that he's just a kid pulling this all out of his ass, but Jon never makes him feel like that. 

Jon shifts for balance and Tommy moves too, grabs for Jon's side to balance them. Jon's t-shirt is soft and rucks up under Tommy's hand; Tommy slides his hand up until he's touching warm, smooth skin. Fuck.

"Have you done this before?" he pants. "Like, with—with a guy?"

"Uh—couple times," Jon says. "Sort of. Have you?"

There’s so much in _sort of_ that Tommy wants to explore, the way he wants to explore the rest of Jon’s warm skin. "I—yeah," he says, and then, rueful, his face tilted into Jon’s neck to avoid scrutiny, "More than sort of."

"Fuck," Jon says, his hand tightening for a second on Tommy's neck. "That's—fuck, Tom, come here," and he tips them sideways, lying them both down. Jon does pause then, to shove some of the crumpled paper out from under them, sweeping it onto the floor. It's just enough time for Tommy to feel self-conscious—what is he doing, what the _hell_ is he doing—but then Jon is back, smiling at him sheepishly, reaching for him again.

He gets his hand back under Jon’s shirt, pushing it up a little, as Jon kisses him again. Jon’s so intent on kissing, Tommy could almost think Jon is content with it, except for the slight roll of his hips, the low groan when Tommy scrapes his nails on Jon’s skin. 

"Can’t believe half of Iowa isn’t all over you," Jon says, quietly, and Tommy smiles despite himself. Jon leans in again and nips his bottom lip, laughing.

They're really—doing this, Tommy realises, with Jon's weight a heavy warm promise on top of him. Jon really _wants_ this. Him. Jon nuzzles at his neck again, breathing hard, and Tommy tugs him closer, closer, until Jon is straddling his thigh and he's _hard_. It's been a while, more than a while, since Tommy's hooked up with a guy and he's missed it, the certain pressing evidence that someone wants him, and Jon clearly does, pushing himself against Tommy like he can't get enough.

"Can I," Tommy's saying as he pushes Jon's shirt up, and Jon reaches up with one hand and drags it off over his head, tosses it to one side. His chest is—he's unfairly gorgeous, unfairly everything. His nipples are hard and tight and Tommy reaches up, thumbs over one without thinking. Jon's stomach tenses up.

"Fuck," Jon says, gasping it. "You’re so—take your—"

There’s something so gratifying about the way Jon’s grabbing at his shirt, rolling them a little until he’s pressing down on Tommy’s thigh. His hips are rolling fast now, jerky. 

Tommy wriggles out of his shirt, gets his hand back on Jon’s chest. He wants that reaction again. "I want—God, can I blow you?" He rubs Jon’s nipple again. 

Jon cries out, loud in Tommy’s ear, and sucks in a breath, and it takes until Tommy registers the way Jon’s frozen in place to grasp what’s just happened.

Jon is so still, face buried in Tommy's neck, and Tommy can feel how hot his face is, pressed against his skin. He's still rubbing Jon's nipple, his other hand spread on Jon's broad back, and Jon twitches away from Tommy's hand.

"Sorry," Jon says, quiet and with a slight edge, just as Tommy is saying, "Hey, it's—it's okay—"

"It, um, happens to everyone," Tommy says, and then winces. That phrasing has never made him feel better about any of his own failings. "We can just—"

Jon manages part of a laugh, and says, "I swear it hasn’t happened to me in years, I just—the campaign stress, I don’t know. Let me, um," and he lets the movement of his hand down Tommy’s belly finish the sentence for him. 

Jon's _sort of_ must have stretched this far, because he doesn't hesitate to get his hand round Tommy's dick, jerks Tommy off like he knows what he's doing. Tommy holds onto him, pants into his neck, and Jon says, "there, there, that's it, Tom, c'mon," and Tommy comes—quickly, he would have said, but Jon came faster. 

Jon rolls off him when they're done, and Tommy says, "you okay?" and Jon says, "Yeah. Sorry, man, that was—" and Tommy wants to kiss him again, to tell him it's okay.

"No," Tommy says, because it seems easier than reaching for him, "No, it was—good, I—like. Thanks. Um. Not like—just, you know. That was fun."

Jon laughs, and it’s easy for him, Tommy notices, to lean in and rest his face on Tommy’s collarbone. "Fun, huh," he says. "You think that was fun, I can do way better than that. We should, uh, rematch sometime."

 _Sometime_. Tommy thinks about it, Jon warm and solid in his arms again. Maybe next he _could_ blow him. Maybe Jon hasn't done that. Maybe next time, he could see Jon come.

He shifts so Jon isn't lying on his arm, moves so his hand is brushing Jon's stomach. Somehow that feels more intimate than Jon's hand on his dick, the thought that Jon is letting him touch, that inches from his hand Jon is sticky in his boxers.

"Yeah," Tommy says, and Jon makes a soft, pleased noise. "We should."

***

Jon wakes up to an email telling him he's needed in Chicago. Which—Jon loves Chicago. He loves being in the thick of it, he loves being in his own house, he loves being at headquarters. Just. That is _not_ ideal timing, just now. He doesn't want Tommy to have this lingering misconception about Jon's prowess. If he'd had the rest of the week, like he thought he would, there'd have been plenty of time to prove to Tommy that that was a weird one-off.

It _had_ been weird. Jon hasn't come in his pants since he was a teenager, much less from a little making out and grinding. It's the weird sleep patterns of the campaign, the stress. It's getting to him in the weirdest ways. 

Anyway. He's sure it's not a thing. It's definitely not a thing. But he might try to get a night off to hit the bars, pick someone else up, just to be ... really sure.

He thinks about it on the plane, back in Chicago, trying to warm up fruitlessly in front of his space heater when he dumps his bags in his room. It's not a thing. Tommy—Tommy probably doesn't even think it was a thing. 

It doesn't hurt, though, when he goes out one night, finds a pretty blonde girl at a bar who twirls a cocktail stick between her teeth and looks up through her eyelashes and says, "Yeah, let's," when he asks if she wants to get out of there.

Nothing goes wrong. It’s easy and familiar: they make out, they get naked, they fuck. He comes after a perfectly respectably interval. It’s nice. 

If he’s thinking, most of the time they’re having sex, about how this means he can go back and prove himself to Tommy, that’s just his ego getting a little overexcited. 

He’s due back in Iowa by Monday. Maybe he’ll leave on the weekend. It’s nice to have downtime with Tommy.

***

Tommy has work over the weekend, obviously, but he's enthusiastic when Jon texts to see if he's free. Jon books a flight for Friday evening.

Tommy looks tired when Jon arrives, wheeling his carry-on behind him, but he pulls Jon into a one-armed hug anyway. He looks good, despite the eyebags. It's always good to see him, always makes Jon feel a little lighter.

"There's a Wolves game tonight," Tommy says. "They're showing it on one of the local channels. You want to go get burgers and come back and watch it?"

Jon wants to go to a sports bar and watch it, but Tommy's a homebody when he's tired. "Sounds great," he says. "Burgers on me. Host gift."

"Gee," Tommy says, grinning at him. "I feel so loved and appreciated."

"Just for that, I'm not getting you extra bacon," Jon says. "Lemme throw my stuff down."

It's _easy_ with Tommy in a way Jon realises how much he misses when he's not there. Tommy knows what he means even when he starts talking in half sentences, and picks up Jon's trains of thought before Jon, sometimes, knows where they're going. 

They get burgers. Jon gets him extra bacon. He steals one of Tommy's fries on the way back and Tommy slaps his hand away, grinning

"Beer?" Tommy asks, and Jon thinks about it, about how sleepy and heavy he'd be after a few, and says, "Nah, I'll—I've got this, uh, exquisitely crafted Iowan fountain soda," waving his to-go cup full of Pepsi. 

Tommy shrugs and closes the fridge. "I think the Wolves are on channel six." He sits by Jon, starts flipping channels. "They're doing okay this season. I think their point guard is gonna get called up." 

Jon's more aware of his body than he usually is, at Tommy's place. Usually he's—it's not quite like being alone, but it's not far off. He sprawls in sweats and doesn't worry about what Tommy will think. Just now, though, he's fixated on the six inches between them, on how his knee would hit Tommy's thigh if he switched positions. How he can't lay an arm over the back of the couch without it being ... something.

Well, then. Fuck it. 

He slings an arm around Tommy, flicks him with two fingers on the far side of his neck. "Hey!" Tommy protests, laughing and shoving at him, and by the time they're done, there's thirty-one points on the scoreboard and Tommy's head is on his thigh, Tommy still huffing laughs between bites of burger.

"Asshole," Tommy says happily, around his burger.

"Don't speak with your mouth full," Jon says, grinning, and is braced and ready when Tommy shoves him again.

They end up—not horizontal, but Tommy has Jon shoved into the couch corner, the pair of them grappling, and then Tommy gets this look on his face that always means trouble and tickles him, quick as anything. Jon shrieks, but Tommy's strong, and he can't quite get away. On the TV, the crowd cheers.

Tommy has to turn away long enough to put the remnants of the burger down, and that lets Jon in under his defenses. It feels like a gimme, a little bit, like Tommy let him up, but Jon will take that. He pushes Tommy back, pinning him to the back of the couch and tickling him, throwing a knee between his to brace against Tommy trying to push him off.

"Uncle!" Tommy shouts, and Jon sags, laughing, hands stilling on Tommy's ribs.

Now he's just ... sitting above Tommy's knee, face hovering above Tommy's, hands on Tommy's torso. "Uh," he says, and laughs again, because—yeah, okay. "Game's not that good anyway," he suggests.

"Don't diss the Wolves," Tommy says, but he runs a hand up Jon's thigh as he says it.

"Wouldn't dare," Jon says, and Tommy slides his hand up further, stuttering to a halt just under his ass. Tommy's blushing, goes red so easy anyway and redder when they're fucking around, which is something Jon knows now.

"You can," he says, trying to sound confident. "Go on."

Tommy slides his hand up, cups his ass over his jeans. It's—Jon hasn't done—that—with a guy, just handjobs in college, but the way Tommy is holding his gaze, intent, like he really, really cares if Jon likes it, if he's okay, is so much. Jon is hard, almost painfully. Tommy hasn't even kissed him.

Tommy curls his fingers, or something like that anyway, fingertips running in short lines. Even through Jon’s jeans, the touch is electric, catching him right where his ass meets his thigh, where it’s sensitive and—evocative. Suggestive. 

Jon curls his own hands on Tommy’s ribs and Tommy squirms. "Still—ticklish," Tommy says. 

"Take your shirt off and I’ll do something different," Jon suggests, because he’d barely gotten to touch Tommy last time, and a guy who goes straight for the nipples probably likes that.

"You have to let me up first," Tommy says, and it goes straight to Jon's dick. God. _God_. He sits back, lifts his hands for long enough that Tommy can haul off his shirt. 

Tommy's chest is a little soft like they all are on the campaign, no time for anything else, has a smattering of sparse fine hair. His nipples are peaked and dark. Jon needs—he needs—

Tommy makes a wry face. "This it it," he says, self-deprecating, glancing down at himself, and Jon pushes him back into the couch, kisses him hard.

"Hot," he says, like last time, because Tommy clearly doesn’t hear it enough, and he deserves to hear it always. Tommy’s _so_ fucking hot. Jon can’t help but touch him, can’t help but try to rock against Tommy’s thigh. 

The angle’s all wrong for what he wants. "Shift—yeah," Tommy going down easy as soon as he pulls, so they’re laid out flat on the couch and Jon can straddle him for real.

Jon rocks against him just for a second, lets himself, and then lets himself touch Tommy's chest properly, Tommy's stomach shivering under his palms. He stops just next to Tommy's nipples, watches Tommy flush brighter. "Yeah?" Jon says, wanting to hear Tommy say it, and Tommy nods fast. 

"Do it, if you're gonna," Tommy says, flatteringly breathless, and Jon does, soft with the pad of one thumb, and Tommy makes this gorgeous cut-off sound, barely audible over the sound of the game.

"Fuck," Jon says, and rocks again.

He tries squeezing, gentle and then hard, and Tommy reaches up and grabs him by the biceps. "Yeah?" Jon asks. "You like that?"

"I—yeah," Tommy says. He's red all over his chest, flushed, and Jon has to, _has to_ , lean down and bite the nearest nipple. "Jesus, Jon!"

Jon can't take this. Tommy's so fucking responsive, so warm, his thigh so solid against Jon's cock. It's like Jon's drowning in sex, and they've barely even started. "You smell amazing," he murmurs. He's not sure Tommy can hear him.

He bites again, runs his tongue over the peak. Tommy's hands tighten on his arms, Tommy squirming a little underneath.

"You're so—" Jon says, and makes himself stop. He isn't sure what that word was going to be, anyway. Tommy wasn't loud last time but he's making these little hitching sounds every time Jon touches his nipples, and Jon wants to know what else he might do, how else he might sound. God. He needs to get his jeans off; his dick is trapped, and aching.

"I want," Tommy says, "let me touch you?" and Jon says, "Yeah, fuck," and Tommy goes for his belt, fumbling with the angle. His brow is furrowed in concentration and it's one of the hottest things Jon has seen: Tommy, focusing in on him.

He wants Tommy’s hand on him so fucking much. He wants—God. Everything. Tommy wanted to blow him last time. Tommy’d put a hand on his ass. Tommy might want—

Tommy’s _hand_ is on his fucking _cock_. 

"Oh," he chokes, " _fuck_ ," and that's really Tommy's hand, just barely on his cock, not even wrapped all the way around him yet, and, fuck, fuck, he's gonna, he's really gonna—

"Tom," he gets out, and doubles over, planting a hand on Tommy's chest, and comes.

He can’t even say anything this time. He just curls in, humiliated, tries to hide his face from Tommy. He feels so fucking good and so _fucking_ embarrassed, all at once. 

Tommy’s hand comes out of his jeans, slowly, and Jon sees him wipe it on his own belly, which is hot enough to send an aftershock shiver through Jon. 

"So, um—" Tommy says, and Jon feels actual tears pricking at his eyes. 

He fights them, forces real breaths into his lungs, gets his gaze at least as high as Tommy’s collarbones. "So I’ll just go—die somewhere," Jon says, trying to keep it light, trying to do anything that will break this tension.

Tommy grabs at him gently, hands on Jon's hips. "No, hey," he says, and he doesn't sound—pitying or, or, sympathetic, or anything other than just... Tommy. Jon still can't look at him, but—that's something. "Please don't—go anywhere."

Tommy's still hard, Jon thinks. _He_ hasn't just come like a fucking teenager.

"Sorry, yeah, I can—" He doesn’t fucking know. He wants to do something to get his own back, to impress Tommy somehow, but the idea of trying something new and failing at that, too, seems—impossible. 

"What, uh—what do you want?" he asks, trying and failing again to meet Tommy’s eyes.

"I want to kiss you," Tommy says, and now _he_ sounds embarrassed. That makes no sense. "Can I—is that okay?"

Now Tommy does sound gentle, and it makes the hair on the back of Jon's neck stand on end. His eyes burn, but—he does want to kiss Tommy. He wants Tommy to kiss him. He wants to show Tommy he's good for something. That he's _good_.

He closes his eyes and kisses the nearest skin, feels his way up and up to Tommy’s mouth. He tries to put all his practice into it, tries to get Tommy raring again, make him want more. 

Maybe he could—maybe he _could_ try to suck Tommy off. Maybe he could—it would at least be a good gesture, to try. Yeah. And besides, it would be hot, he thinks. He’s been thinking about it a little, how it would feel to have Tommy in his mouth.

Tommy keeps his hands on Jon's hips, kisses back until Jon starts to feel—not _not_ embarrassed but better, slightly, less like he might fall apart without warning. He kisses Tommy's neck, end-of-day rough with stubble, and down, until he's got Tommy's quivering belly under his mouth. He can taste himself there, where Tommy wiped his hand. 

He still doesn't look up, toys with the waist of Tommy's jeans. This close, the bulge of Tommy's dick looks huge, Jesus. "I, uh," Jon says. Swallows. "Let me suck you off?"

"Uh," Tommy says, and laughs, sounding nervous. "I mean—has anyone ever said no to that?"

"Never asked anybody before," Jon tells him, and starts opening Tommy’s fly. 

"You—oh, God," Tommy groans. "Fuck, you don’t, um, you don’t have to."

Jon can hear the "but _please_ do" in Tommy’s tone, and the combination—Tommy giving him the out, but wanting the blowjob—makes it easier to pull Tommy’s cock out and put his mouth on it.

It tastes … not unfamiliar—Jon has tasted his own come before, embarrassed and curious in his own bedroom—but deeper than he was expecting. Up close, everything smells of sweat and sex, and Tommy has gone so still that Jon would be worried he was doing something wrong if he didn't know Tommy, know the way he closes up when he's trying not to react or give anything away. He's doing that for Jon, Jon thinks, trying to be considerate. It's—hot.

It’s not unlike what he’s imagined, from watching porn and his girlfriends—jaw-stretching, in a way that feels exciting. Salty. And hot, more so than it had been even when he jerked off to the idea. 

He glances up at Tommy and sees him looking at Jon. Jon can’t help but look away, but the image is in his head now, Tommy watching him. Tommy seeing Jon with his lips wrapped around Tommy’s cock.

God, God, he's really doing this. He's more aware of his teeth than he's ever been, which is weird, and Tommy gets out, "Jon, _fuck_ ," and it's so hot, so endlessly hot. "That's so—are you—"

Tommy leaks onto his tongue. Jon's face is on fire; Tommy is _watching_.

He tries to suck and doesn’t feel like he can quite manage it well except just up at the top, so he pauses there. "That’s—oh God, Jon." 

Tommy’s approvals are helping him shove down his lingering embarrassment. He can be good at this. He can show Tommy that the ... other thing is just a fluke, two weird times. That fucking around with Jon is worth it.

He can make Tommy want more of this, he’s sure of it.

He sucks harder, testing, and Tommy's hips come up. "Sorry, sorry," Tommy is gasping, even as Jon has to pull back and cough, wipe his eyes, "I'm sorry, that was—you were—it's so good, Jon."

"Yeah?" Jon manages, peering at Tommy. Tommy is bright red all down his chest, chest heaving. "Maybe I should—should hold you down a bit."

Tommy makes a strangled noise. "You don't-" and Jon cuts him off, bolder: "I want to."

"Then—yeah," Tommy says, voice low. "You can—yeah."

 _This_ is what Jon needed to feel better. This, he can do for sure. He slings an arm across Tommy's hips and brings his knee up, curling, to hold Tommy's thigh down. "Gonna make you come," Jon tells him, hand still moving on Tommy's cock. "Gonna make you beg me for it."

"Jesus," Tommy says, faintly. He puts his hands over his face for a moment, and then up over his head, one hand clasping the other wrist. He does like this, Jon holding him down and making him want it.

"Could tie you up sometime," Jon says, and doesn't even wait for the groan he knows he's gonna get before he leans down to suck Tommy again.

He focuses on the head, sucks there like Tommy liked before. He's leaning his weight down on Tommy's hips, keeping him there, and he hasn't hit the gym in a while but it's _working_ , Tommy making little abortive thrusts and Jon holding him firm. It's fucking heady, seeing Tommy's ingrained politeness get worn away by a mouth on his dick, and this feels _good_ , feels like Jon is doing what he needs. What they both need.

Tommy's thighs are tensing around him, his breath coming in halts and starts. It's impossible not to think about the embarrassment of earlier, with his come cooling uncomfortably in his briefs, but he can drown it out with this, with Tommy's heavy breathing. With Tommy's restless hips and the way he groans when Jon pointedly shifts his weight to pin them down harder. 

Tommy's getting close, he's pretty sure. Jon has to decide what to do. He's always appreciated swallowing, or—or trying, failing a little. He's always found it hot to pull a messy-chinned girl back up and kiss her. Maybe Tommy would like that, seeing that Jon couldn't quite swallow it all, that he's—that he came that much. 

Maybe Tommy wants to come on his face. Jon has to stop for a second and breathe, thinking about that. Not—not today, but maybe—

"Jon," Tommy chokes out, like nothing Jon has ever heard from him before, "Jon, I—you should move, I'm— _close_." He sounds it too, tight-voiced and straining. Jon pulls up, just a little; it's going to drip out of his mouth, he's sure, get all over Tommy's thighs, make a mess of him like Jon has made a mess of himself.

He sucks harder. Tommy goes tense tense tense underneath him, tries to buck his hips, and then—

Jon instinctively moves back, not enough to completely lose his place, but enough to throw him off the rhythm of his plan. He just wasn't expecting it to be so _sudden_. 

They're certainly both messy now, come dripping down Tommy's cock and splashed on Jon's jaw, and when Jon thinks Tommy's done, he licks his lips and looks up. 

Tommy's watching him like—Tommy's watching him like nobody's ever watched Jon before. Like he's the best, dirtiest porn. Jon licks his lips again, and Tommy reaches for him, pulling at his shoulder. His hand's shaking on Jon's skin.

"Jon," he says, and his voice is shaking too, "oh my God, Jon, you—come here, get up here." He pulls again, and Jon goes, easily, up to kiss Tommy's mouth with his wet messy one, get Tommy's come between them. Tommy clutches at him, grip tight on his shoulder. He's kissing like he can't get his breath back, but makes a noise of protest when Jon tries to give him room.

Jon feels like he’s coming back to his senses. He hears the TV, suddenly, for the first time since he started grinding into Tommy. The announcer says the Wolves are up by twenty. 

"Your, uh, team is winning," he tells Tommy. His voice isn’t hoarse at all. He’s sort of disappointed about it. 

"I think you’re good luck," Tommy says, and kisses him again.

***

Jon’s been asleep every time Tommy’s gotten home this week. It seems … not right, to wake him up for this, whatever they’re doing, friends-with-benefits fooling around. So Tommy doesn’t, but then Jon’s up and out before Tommy’s alarm. 

Jon texts him incessantly, at least. Not about _that_ , just—regular stuff, really. More dumb jokes about Axe’s mustache. And then, on Thursday: _I made Axe swear I can get out by 7 tonight. You wanna hang out? ;)_

Tommy stares at the winky face for longer than a man in his mid-twenties should before sending _yeah, sounds good_. Jon is the speechwriter, not him; he doesn't know how to convey, Yes let's hang out and do you want to fuck around. He doesn't know if there _is_ a way.

But he gets home and Jon is there before him for once, feet up on the couch, grinning at him.

"Hey," Tommy says. "‘Honey, I’m home.’" Jon laughs, at least, and Tommy goes out of his shoes, drops his jacket on its hook, his keys in the bowl. "Axe let you out really early, huh?"

"Too early," Jon says. "Said I was so antsy I was keeping everyone else from getting work done. Think he thinks I’m meeting a girl somewhere."

Tommy rolls that in his mind, Jon antsy and excited to get off work and see him. It’s ... nice. Very nice.

"Yeah?" 

Jon colours up when Tommy looks at him after that, and that's nice too, like it was when Jon held his hips down hard, when Jon watched him cross his wrists above his head. Not the same, but—good. Good.

"So, uh—" Tommy has no idea what the etiquette is here.

"So—uh, you hungry?" Jon asks. "We could eat."

Jon’s visible nerves make it easier for Tommy to say, "I’m not hungry. If you’re not, we could just—" He can’t get the right words out, so he tips his chin toward the bedroom. 

Jon grins, soft and easy and promising. "Yeah, that—yeah."

Jon unfolds up from the couch, and Tommy can't help but watch. He's long and, and, fucking gorgeous, and he was antsy to come home to Tommy. Tommy is hardening up already.

They stand awkwardly near Tommy's bed. "So, uh," Tommy says, running low on bravado, and Jon—thank God, thank _God_ —leans in and kisses him. Tommy clutches at his wrinkled shirt.

It's just so fucking good. Tommy's used to buddyfucking; it's practically his default. But it feels like more with Jon, as much as he tries to shove down the part of him that wants to push. It feels—the way Jon kisses him, the way Jon's fingers stroke his skin, it feels like something more. He wants it to be something more. 

"Let me—um, climb up and I'll, I can blow you," Tommy says, feeling Jon's fingers tightening on his waist. "Yeah?"

"Uh, yeah," Jon says. "Jesus, Tommy. Yeah." He peels out of his shirt and goes for his fly. Tommy strokes his hands down Jon's chest, enjoying the easy way he's stripping.

"Yeah," Tommy says, mindless, letting himself touch Jon where he wants while Jon struggles out of his pants. "You're—that's so hot, Jon, fuck."

Jon is down to his boxers, flushed, that shy fucking grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Doing it for you?"

It's—it's a joke, partially, but Jon can't quite land it, can't quite throw it away.

"Yeah," Tommy says, because Jon's been so reassuring to Tommy; if he needs to be told he's hot, Tommy can do that. "You look—yeah. Lie down?"

Jon crawls backwards into the center of the bed. He's not as muscled as they both were when they worked out of the Senate office, went to the gym every morning, but Tommy can still see the bulge of his biceps and his quads as he lifts himself. "So hot," he says again, and climbs up after him.

Sure, they've screwed around before, but not like _this_ , Tommy crawling up Jon's body to kiss him, Jon's hands coming up to grab his arms and hold on, keep him close. Jon is so warm underneath him, warm and good, and Tommy rolls his hips down once, testing.

Almost Jon’s whole body is bared to him, and Tommy wants to kiss Jon forever but not quite as much as he wants to touch and mouth every other part of him. 

Jon’s jaw and neck are smooth; he must have shaved again after he got home. That’s a heady thought. Tommy wonders what else Jon did to get ready. Washed? Trimmed? His chest hair is all as Tommy expects it, soft and relatively sparse.

Tommy can’t keep his hands from straying down Jon’s belly. He just wants Jon so much. He hasn’t gotten to do anything for him, barely touched him, and now he wants to revel in it.

Tommy noses at Jon's neck while he's there, just wants to rub his whole face against all of Jon, touch him all over, know how he feels. He wants that almost more than he wants Jon to touch him; he wants to find out all the places that make Jon gasp, all the ways he can sound. He gets his mouth on Jon's chest too, and then around one nipple, testing an edge of teeth, and Jon makes such a startled sound that Tommy almost pulls back, but Jon holds him in place. Tommy wants—he wants to suck him off. He wants to bite Jon's thighs.

He wants to ask— _what do you like? What can I do to make you feel amazing?_ —but it’s easier to just try things, scraping his teeth against Jon’s soft skin, stroking his fingers up Jon’s inner thigh. 

"Gonna," he mumbles, and Jon groans, something almost but not quite a word. 

Tommy kisses down the line of Jon’s belly. He can fully explore later. He wants Jon’s dick in his mouth _now_.

Jon's wearing tight black boxer briefs, tighter now with his dick pushing at the front. Tommy wants to put his mouth on it over the fabric, taste Jon like that too, but more than that he just wants _Jon_. He peels down the waistband, lets Jon's dick free. Jon groans, like even that change in pressure is—is doing it for him. His cock is flushed and red, shiny at the tip. Tommy feels sappy for thinking it, but it's as stupid beautiful as the rest of Jon.

"You're so hot," Tommy says, staring, because it's that or say _you're gorgeous_ , and he's not quite sure if he can, yet. "God, I want to—"

Jon's hips buck up. Tommy takes that as encouragement, dips his head.

Jon's cock feels as good as it looks, for all of about six seconds, and then Tommy's pulling back, trying to avoid getting come in his eyes. He still gets it across his cheek and his chin, and his hand where he's still holding Jon's cock steady. He blinks for a second, trying to process, and then Jon's sitting up, pushing him back, climbing off the bed. "Hey—"

"Don't," Jon snaps. "I don't want to hear it." He's shoving into his jeans, grabbing his shirt off the floor. Tommy's still on his fucking hands and knees on the foot of his bed; what the fuck is even happening?

He shifts so he's sitting, and then stands up instead: Jon is fastening his jeans with jerking, sharp movements, not looking at him, and the atmosphere is suddenly different. Worse. Tommy doesn't want to be sitting down for it. The back of Jon's neck is a dull red.

"Are you," Tommy starts, and he doesn't know what's going on but he does know that Jon looks angry.

"I said _don't_ ," Jon snaps again, and his voice rises to a shout.

There's still come on Tommy's face, on his hand. He wipes his hand on the bed. "Jon, hey—"

"Fuck off, Tommy," Jon says, and then he's gone, out the door, grabbing the strap of his duffel as he goes. Tommy hears him wrestling with his shoes in the entranceway, and doesn't go out to try again. "Fuck off" is clear enough, he guesses, even if he has no goddamn idea what's happening here. Grabbing his duffel, that's clear enough.

They've got work in the morning, too. Not in the same department, not in the same cubicle like it used to be, but—

The front door slams. Tommy sits back down on the bed and runs the back of his hand over his face to clean it off a little. He should wash. He should text Jon, maybe. Maybe not. It's not like _he_ did anything. Did he? Maybe he—Christ, this is stupid. Who gets angry about an orgasm? Tommy stands up and crosses to the sink. Fuck Jon, actually. That's who—fuck Jon for whatever the hell that was. 

He washes his face, and his hands, and goes to find something to watch on TV. There's no way he's falling asleep tonight.

***

Jon walks, fast and angry, until his feet hurt and his duffel is rubbing on his shoulder. He tries to think _nothing_ , just the slap of his feet on the sidewalk, but he keeps circling back to tommy's face as Jon shoved off the bed. Tommy's face as Jon came—so quickly, just _came_ —

He walks faster.

He's such a fuck-up. He's such a—why did it have to be with Tommy? If he was going to suddenly regress to high school, to the worst parts of being a teenager, why did it have to be—why couldn't it have been with someone whose opinion he doesn't much care about?

It's chilly, and dark, and he's going to get lost if he's not careful. He's not quite stupid enough to let himself do that, even if his betraying body apparently thinks he's a dumbfuck teenager. If he angles right, he'll wind up at the office, where there's at least a couch he can camp out on while he tries not to think about any of this.

He takes a couple wrong turns but ends up at HQ eventually. There's a light still on somewhere, but it seems empty, and Jon makes his way to the breakroom couch without seeing anyone. He sits down. Puts his head in his hands. Breathes.

After the long walk, he's far enough away from the— _humiliation_ of it all that he's starting to shift his embarrassment to how he acted, after. It's sort of a blur but "fuck you, Tommy" stands out; it's running through his head, over and over, too loud and a thousand times too mean.

He could text, except what the fuck would he say? "Sorry my dick is broken, it usually works, also sorry I'm a jackass." Not exactly sterling material.

He flops down on the couch. His head's spinning, and his whole body's strangely numb from the cold seeping out of him. He can figure this out in the morning.

There are a couple blankets slung over the couch arm, because the heating is unreliable sometimes in here, and as much as Jon contemplates pulling them over his face and not emerging, he just drags them over himself, closes his eyes.

 _Fuck off, Tommy_.

He opens his eyes again.

Tommy still had come on his face when Jon left. Jon is—Jesus, he can't even think about it.

He knows why he said it. He knows why he ran the fuck out of there. He can't take even thinking about what Tommy must have thought, must have wanted to say. Tommy's a nice guy, mostly, but sometimes he's an asshole, and this—three fucking times of this—Jon can only fucking imagine. 

It's easy to picture Tommy laughing at him. Saying, "Sorry, it's just funny that this was all supposed to be about you being good at sex, do you remember that?" Shaking his head, putting his clothes back on.

Making it a story, later. Telling—not their friends, Tommy wouldn't do that, but telling girls in bars, or his high-school buddies. Just a funny story about a guy who embarrassed himself in bed, over and over, until Tommy finally pulled the plug on the whole thing.

Almost the worst part of the whole thing is that Jon _is_ good at sex. He knows he is. He pays attention, and he likes to use his mouth, which have always made up for the times when he's been too self-centered, the times when he's made a hook-up feel too much like a hook-up. It was _easy_ to turn that on Tommy, lean in close and smile at him, watch Tommy go faintly pink. He wanted to. He _wants_ to.

And instead, this. 

He wakes up, after a fitful batch of sleep, some godawful time in the morning when a vacuum is running loudly in the next room over, and hauls himself up and out before he can run into someone while he looks like—this. Someone who slept on a couch and hurt their back. Definitely not someone who could get a Senator elected President.

There's a gym nearby. He can take his duffel there and shower.

The shower is worse than the rest. He's still got streaks of come on him, and showering always puts him deep in his head. And, like—fucking around with his best friend was already a really stupid thing to do. But _failing_ at fucking around with his best friend—the guy he wants to go to the White House with, the guy who he texts before he texts his own mom—that's, Jesus. That's so moronic Jon wants to punch the tile wall of the shower.

He doesn't. It's not a good day to have to explain why his knuckles are bleeding to Axe. No day is a good day for that.

Thinking about Axe reminds him of the way Axe had shooed him out the office with obvious fondness, bordering on exasperation; the equally obvious assumption he'd been making. Jon had shaved for Tommy. Jon had waited for him.

 _Fuck off, Tommy_.

Tommy is maybe the best thing in Jon’s life, the best person he knows except maybe the Senator—he thinks Tommy would agree with him there—and Jon’s fucking it up so intensely, in every way. He wants only the best things in the world for Tommy, and instead he’s giving him shitty sex, a screwed-up friendship, and misplaced contempt. Christ. Tommy deserves so much better than any of that, and Jon has no fucking clue how to fix it.

Jon makes himself get out of the shower, dries and dresses himself. He's gonna—he just has to do this. He doesn't really have a choice. He's going to pick up coffee and a bagel or something on the way back to the office, sit at the desk he's stolen for the duration of his stay, put his headphones on and just ... do this. He can do this.

This thin conviction lasts until he sees Tommy come in the door. Even from a distance, he looks like he hasn't slept. He doesn't look at Jon.

Jon waits until he’s out of the room and then flees, goes to find Dan. Dan’s always grumpy in Iowa, but he’s always willing to assign work, always okay with Jon curling up in the corner of his office to write. Tommy won’t find him in here. 

_You’re an idiot_ , he tells himself, but buying time feels like the only good idea he’s had in twelve hours.

He stays hunched over his laptop until the need to pee outweighs his need to never leave Dan's office. On his way back from the bathroom, he glances up from his Blackberry and—Tommy is looking at him. Jon can't read him at all. It feels horrible.

He can't avoid Tommy forever. Just—just a little longer. He can manage a few more hours, at least.

***

Tommy waits until the end of the day to snag Jon. He doesn't exactly want to, but Jon looks—pathetic, not angry, and that helps. Not like the Jon he was afraid he'd see, the _fuck off, Tommy_ Jon he saw every time he tried to close his eyes all night.

He's running on maybe two hours of sleep total, and it makes it easier to put off the conversation, or fight, or whatever it's going to be. He stays at work late, because he doesn't see Jon leave. He doesn't know where Jon stayed last night but he needs to at least offer him the chance to crash with him again. Tommy can take the couch. He just—needs Jon to know he has somewhere to go, if he wants it.

Dan leaves. Jon doesn’t.

Most people have gone now, and Tommy finally accepts he's getting nothing done, shuts his computer down and knocks on Dan's office door. They probably shouldn’t do this at work, but—but—

"Jon?" Tommy says, through the door. He's glad no one can see him. He feels like he's got hope and unease written all over his face.

He only has a moment to wonder what he'll do if Jon just doesn't open the door before the doorknob turns. The door only opens a crack, but it's an invitation, Tommy supposes. He pushes inside.

Jon's settling down—back down—on the little couch. Tommy hopes he wasn't planning to sleep here; his legs would be hanging off the end. 

Someone has to start talking, and it seems like Jon isn't going to. Tommy leans against the door and sticks his hands in his pockets, says, "Is something wrong? Like—you're not acting like yourself, is it, um—are you okay? Health-wise? Is your family okay?" He's talking too much. He bites his lip, curls his fingers in his pockets, and shuts up.

"What?" Jon looks startled. "No, yeah, they're fine. That's not—they're fine."

He looks like he hasn't slept and he's still so goddamn handsome. Tommy has to swallow past the sudden lump of wanting in his throat. "Then, uh," he says, and, God, is there any way to say any of this without sounding ... desperate. Weird. He—can't do this at work. "Is there anything I can do?"

Jon curls forward, drops his face into his hands. "Jesus," he says, muffled. "Tommy—look, I'm sorry about all the—I'm sorry about yelling, and I'm sorry about all the incredibly shitty sex, and—"

"The what?" Tommy steps toward the couch. He doesn't _think_ he misheard, but his heart's beating fast in his chest now. "I—you didn't like the—" Jon didn't like it. Jon didn't like any of it—Tommy's been getting this all so wrong, _fuck_.

Jon keeps his hands over his face. "How could I like—Jesus, it's _embarrassing_ , Tom."

Tommy is going to—he's going to think about this at a remove. He's getting good at that now, from work; thinking about the answers behind answers and not letting it show. "What is?"

Jon groans. "Don't do this. Don't make me say it."

Tommy thinks, very clearly, _we should not be at work for this_. He says, "We should maybe not be here for this, right?"

Jon looks around him, and scrubs his hand through his hair. "No, yeah. No."

"Get your bag," Tommy says. "Like—I'm not going to jump you or anything, you can still stay at my place, whatever we ... have to talk about. I'll sleep on the couch." 

Jon makes a weird face, but he gets up, grabs his bag and his jacket, gestures for Tommy to lead the way out.

They're quiet in the car, at first. Tommy signals, turns, stops, all on autopilot. He finally says, "Did you sleep at the office, or—I was worried about you."

Jon is fidgeting in the passenger seat, looking down at his phone, out his window. Not looking at Tommy. "Yeah," he says. "I, uh, crashed on the breakroom couch. There's, you know, blankets and stuff."

"You could have told me," Tommy says, before he could help it. They're getting close to his place so he wants to get this out while he still has an excuse not to look at Jon about it. They're both as bad as each other. "I thought—I didn't know what I was going to find at work this morning, you know?"

It sounds as melodramatic as it feels, but at three in the morning it felt a whole lot less ridiculous. Tommy's phone had stayed quiet, no messages. Jon doesn't know his way around here, not really. Tommy had somehow—pushed him away. 

"I should have texted," Jon says, kind of hoarsely. "That was a shitty thing to do, I'm sorry."

"I—" Tommy makes another turn, focuses on finding what he wants to say. "I'm sorry you felt like you had to leave. That wasn't—" He shakes his head. "I don't know why, but if you tell me, I won't do it again."

Jon's quiet for almost a whole block, and then says, "Are you fucking with me?"

Tommy glances away from the road long enough to see that Jon looks more confused than angry. "No."

"You didn't do anything," Jon says. "You're, like—perfect." It's not a happy sentence; it doesn't settle into Tommy's chest the way the words should let it. "I'm the, like." He doesn't finish the sentence.

Tommy pulls into the little parking lot, turns off the car. "Tell me what you are inside," he says. "It's cold."

They troop indoors, Tommy toeing out of his shoes as soon as they're inside. He's wearing flag socks and he sees Jon notice, and smile.

"Coffee?" Tommy asks, even though it's late enough in the evening that it's probably a bad idea. He wants something to do with his hands. 

"Sure," Jon says, and then, "no, wait, we need to—I'm fucking this up." He sounds like he hasn't said it before. He sounds like he's _thought_ it a lot before.

"Look," Jon says, and pauses, takes a deep breath. Tommy puts his hands in his pockets. He's got a paperclip in one, and he fiddles with it between two fingers. 

"Okay," Jon starts again. He crosses his arms in front of himself, closes his eyes. "I don't know why my dick isn't working, and I'm sorry, and we can go back to being non-sex friends, and please don't—tell anyone. And I'm sorry for being an ass last night."

Tommy tips himself sideways against the door; staying fully upright seems not quite right for the weird relief pouring through him right now. "Wait, is that all?"

Jon's eyes slit open, looking up at Tommy through his lashes. "Is what all?"

"Your—the only reason you've been weird is you're coming kinda fast? That's the—you ditched me and walked three miles to the office because of that?"

Jon puts a hand over his face. "A little fast? It's been—" He sucks a breath in. "Fucking _humiliating_ , Tommy. And you're so good at everything, it's—" He stops, shakes his head.

"What? No, I'm not." Tommy can't think of a less accurate way to describe himself than _good at everything_. Jon huffs out a breath. Tommy hears again, _humiliating_ , thinks about the angry way Jon jerked his clothes back on, the dull furious red creeping up the back of his neck. "Jon," he says, and wishes so much he were better at easy physical contact the way Jon is. He wants to touch Jon, tell him it's okay. He wants Jon to stop looking ashamed. "You—coming like that—" Jon cringes "—wait, no, Jon, it was—" _so fucking hot_ "—really okay." That sounded as half-hearted as it felt. Tommy steels himself. "I—it was good, for me. Like. Flattering." Still not quite there. "I—really love watching you come." 

He can feel himself blushing about it. Christ.

"Look, that's—nice of you to say," Jon says. His face doesn't suggest he finds it nice. "I appreciate the, uh, polite, uh, words, but just—let's not, you know, ever talk about this again. Please. We'll just let time pass until I can look any human being in the face again."

Tommy's seriously not making this go the way he wants it to go. "That would be—um, that would suck for me," he says. "I mean, if you don't want to—but if you think it was, I was, perfect, then, um, maybe you do, so—I do, too."

Jon shakes his head. "What?"

Fucking—fuck. "I want you. A lot. I don't—I _super_ don't care when you come, as long as you do. As long as you want it, too. That's the only, um, that's the only part I care about, that we both—want it."

His heart is beating so hard Jon can probably hear it. This is some prime evidence for _good at everything_ being supremely inaccurate. Tommy wishes Jon would—would look at him.

"Because I really do," he says, pushing on, because the silence is more than he can take, which doesn't usually happen to him. He can usually wait out pretty much anything. "And, uh. That's all I've got."

"Huh," Jon says. He's biting his lip. "I—you really didn't mind?"

Of course that's where Jon's focus is. He takes shame so badly, wraps himself in it like a cloak. Tommy—wants to kiss him until he can't feel bad anymore, touch him until he knows Tommy wants him.

"It was hot," Tommy says, finally, easier now. "Like—you being that, um—I don't know, overwhelmed or whatever. We could—like, go again, after, probably. Or I could, like ... tease you."

Jon licks his lips, pulls his lower lip into his mouth for a second. Tommy sees his thumb pushing into his thigh. "Tease me?"

God. Tommy can tell this is taking a turn, and he's all for it. "Yeah," he says, softly. "Like ... get you close and back off. Make you wait. Make you—" _beg_ "—really want it."

Jon's hand twitches by his leg. "You could," he says, softly. "You could ... make me."

Tommy tries to gauge the level, and then takes the chance. Jon is dark-eyed, and looking at him properly. The relief feels heavy, grounding. "You'd have to—tell me," he says. "You'd have to—be good."

Jon blows out a small breath, and his hand moves much closer to his zipper. "I, uh. I can do that," he says. 

"Then put your hand on the wall," Tommy tells him, and Jon fists it for a moment and then slaps it on the wall behind him. The noise is startling, and Tommy finds himself taking a step forward, and then another. 

"How about," Tommy says, close to Jon’s ear, "I’m the only one who gets to touch your cock right now." 

Jon’s breathing loudly now, and Tommy doesn’t know if it’s on purpose, but he’s tilting his head back and baring his throat. "... yeah," he says, belatedly. "That’s—yeah."

Tommy puts his hand on Jon's waist, curving around. Jon is solid under his palm, warm. "Can I kiss you?" Tommy asks, before belatedly realising he should maybe have not phrased it as a request. 

But Jon nods, silent, like he liked it, and Tommy leans in and does. After a second, feeling exposed, he says, "You can—touch me," and Jon grabs for him, pulls him closer.

Tommy can't believe they almost lost this, can't bear it.

Everything about Jon—kissing Jon, and Jon's hands on his back, and the long line of Jon against him, and the way Jon says _yeah_ —everything about it is overwhelming. Tommy's fucked lots of friends, but it's never felt like this. He tamps that part down, or at least the urge to say something stupid, like _do you want to be my boyfriend_ , and focuses on making Jon feel at least half as good as Tommy does.

Tommy wants to take his time, this time. It's not that late. It's not that early, either, but it's Friday and Tommy doesn't remember when Jon has to fly back to Chicago, but it won't be first thing Saturday morning, he's pretty sure. So: he wants to touch Jon everywhere, and lick him everywhere, and see if he can make Jon's knees buckle, and then take him to bed.

"Good," Tommy says, quietly, and gets to feel Jon shiver from it. He wants to touch Jon _everywhere_ , every place he can; slides his hands up under Jon's shirt without going for the buttons, just wants to feel skin under his hands. Jon is breathing fast. 

"Okay?" Tommy checks, and Jon says, "So okay," on a shivery self-deprecating laugh

Jon's hands aren't moving, exactly, on Tommy's back, but every time Tommy touches him right, they grip at Tommy's shirt. It's better, almost, than Jon touching him; it's like an instant response that tells Tommy what Jon wants, what will make him feel good. 

What Jon wants: stroking on his sides; scratching on his back; soft, teasing touches at his waistband. Tommy's mouth on his neck and the point of his jaw and under his ears. Tommy's teeth on his collarbone. Tommy's teeth on his neck, but Tommy resists the urge to mark him there, where anyone could see it. Where the _Senator_ could see it.

"I could leave a mark," Tommy says, letting it out of his head, the heady spiral of the possibility. "People would know. They'd, they'd, know you liked it. The—" he doesn't say it, cuts himself off, but Jon gasps sharply like he knows where Tommy was going. Of course he does. He always does.

"You can't," Jon pants, but he sounds regretful, and Tommy—loses his mind a little, gets Jon's shirt open and bites at his collarbone, uses teeth.

Jon makes an amazing noise, clutches him tight.

Here, it's safe enough—maybe not quite as good, maybe not quite as _claiming_ as it would be to mark him higher, but it's still Tommy's bruises on Jon's skin. It's still going to be there when Jon goes to the gym, when he sees himself in Tommy's bathroom mirror. Tommy can still pull back and stare at it and rub his finger over it. "You—" He has to clear his throat to get the words out "—you look good like this."

"God, Tommy," Jon says, yanking him in closer and kissing him, hard, teeth pulling on Tommy's lip. It feels like Jon can't get enough, and that's exactly how Tommy feels, too. 

Jon's hard against him, and Tommy forces his hips back, even though he wants to grind up against Jon. Even though making Jon wait means he has to wait, too.

"You—have to tell me," Tommy says, "when you're—close. Okay?" Jon nods. "And it's okay if you—can't, uh, if you need to—"

"I'll wait," Jon says, hoarse. "I'll tell you," and hauls Tommy back in.

Tommy's done things like this—never from this side, but he’s got enough experience to think, fleetingly, _maybe if you don't, I'll punish you_. He keeps it inside his head, for now; they'll worry about that later. It sends a jolt of arousal through him, though, so—yeah. He'll bring it up. Another time. 

For now, he'll hope Jon can give him enough warning. "Take your shirt off," he tells Jon, and steps back enough to watch. He lets Jon see him watching, lets Jon get nervous. Jon holds the shirt in front of him, and Tommy pulls it away to drop on the ground beside them. "I like looking at you," Tommy says.

He wants—so much—to take Jon to bed, to strip him down and lay him out and see all of him, touch him everywhere, but he doesn't want to move from here until he's had Jon close.

Jon is flushing deep, up from his chest, blotchy across his collarbones where Tommy has marked him. "You can look," he says. "I like it when you look."

Tommy thinks about the times he's seen Jon come—with Tommy's thumbs on his nipples, hand or mouth only just on his cock—and touches everywhere else until Jon tips his head back and groans. Tommy wants to—to grab his ass.

He says, feeling it in his throat, "How close are you?"

Jon sucks in a breath. "Pr—pretty close." He looks it, too, lips parted and chest heaving. He looks _edible_. 

Tommy steps back, puts his hands in his pockets. Clears his throat again. "So—how was your, uh, work day?" Jon looks at him, incredulous, and Tommy shrugs.

"Uh, it was—I mean, other than the really shitty parts I think we covered already, it was okay," Jon says. His eyes keep drifting down Tommy's body. "Uh, got some edits from the Senator, you know, trying to—we're still playing with the stump speech." 

Tommy moves back in, and Jon watches him, hungry. "Don't come," he says, which might be counterproductive, based on Jon's soft whine. He keeps his hips well back from Jon's, and grabs his ass through his jeans. Jon throws his head back and breaths raggedly, but he doesn't—Tommy waits, and watches—lose it. Not just yet. "Good," Tommy tells him, and kisses his shoulder.

"Oh, fuck," Jon says, low. "I—say that again?"

Tommy kisses his bare shoulder again, slides his hands up Jon's ass to the waistband of his jeans. "Good," he says, "don't come," and slides his hands between Jon's jeans and his underwear. Jon breathes harder, clutches at him—but keeps it together. " _Good_ ," Tommy says again, throat burning, and Jon chokes, " _Close_." 

Tommy draws back a little way, clocks the battle of humiliated arousal on Jon's handsome face. Jesus.

He wants to say everything he's thinking—wants, almost, almost, to risk pushing Jon over the edge with it. It really looks like Jon could come from the wrong words right now—the right words—and Tommy wants to say all of them. _Being so good for me_ and _make you wait as long as I want_ and _if you come before I say, I'll put you over my knee_ and _you look so fucking sexy I don't know how to handle it_ and _please God let me fuck you, I'll make it feel so fucking good_.

He says, instead, "When's your flight back?"

Jon has his eyes squeezed closed; he's breathing hard. "I—don't know," he says, ragged, and then, "Sunday. Sunday morning." He takes a few deep breaths. This was such a good idea. This was—it's so hot to see Jon like this, fighting himself because he wants it. Because Tommy wants it.

Tommy wasn't lying—he really doesn't mind if Jon comes fast, as long as he's having a good time—but something about this is really ... it's really ....

"Good," he says, when Jon looks less tense. He reaches out, takes Jon's wrist. Jon looks at him with big, dark eyes, that fucking shy smile back again. "Let's—go to bed, yeah?"

Jon just nods, but he slides his hand up and gets his fingers between Tommy’s. It’s not exactly the vibe Tommy was going for, but it makes his heart jump into his throat. 

Jon’s quiet, and it makes Tommy quiet, until he can turn Jon to face him and start peeling him out of his remaining clothes. It’s dim in here, and there’s something that feels reverent about the way Jon’s letting him do this. About the way he wants to take his time and show Jon—show Jon how he really feels, even if he knows he shouldn’t.

Tommy sinks to his knees, peels Jon's jeans down. Jon's thighs are gorgeous, the muscle not as defined as it was before the campaign started for real but Tommy likes it, likes the way it feels under his mouth. 

"Tommy," Jon breathes, and puts a steadying hand on his shoulder.

Tommy sits back, looks up at him. "You need a second?"

Jon shakes his head. Kneeling like this, Tommy is eye-level with his dick, the wet patch on the front of his dark boxer briefs. He isn't going to taste—he wants to help Jon last—but he does remember the weight of Jon's dick in his mouth, the salt taste of Jon's come.

He can mouth at Jon’s thighs, though, and his belly. He wants to bite, to mark Jon again—on his hips, maybe, or just up under his ass. "Fuck," he says, not quite loud enough for Jon to hear. 

He wants everything, all of it, all at once. He stands up, instead, slides his hands up Jon’s body. "Maybe—maybe you should get me off first," he says, warning to the idea as he has it. "Maybe you should ... make me want to let you come." He can feel the blush spreading as he says it, but the way Jon’s knees almost buckle make him think he’s landed on something good, here.

"Yeah," Jon says, fervent, "yeah, I can—how do you want to, to let me?"

Jesus. Something more than good, maybe. 

"I," Tommy says, so Jon isn't left waiting, and has to rapidly think what he wants. "I want—stay close, okay? Your ... hand. Jerk me off."

He's picturing them on the bed—what he _wants_ is Jon on top of him, maybe, jerking him off and not touching his own dick, but he doesn't want to make it too easy for Jon to come when Jon is trying so hard not to.

"Just—sit," he says instead, nudging Jon back until he's on the edge of the bed. It puts his head near Tommy's belly, and Tommy takes a deep breath, trying not to get distracted from the task at hand. 

He opens his own jeans, and then peels out of his shirt quickly, trying not to feel too on-display but wanting this to be—not just Jon, almost naked, and Tommy, almost fully clothed. Wanting them to be together in it.

Jon's staring, but not reaching. "You can—" Tommy starts, and then Jon's hands are on him. He's stroking so confidently, so _excitedly_ , like he's been waiting for this as much as for Tommy to let him come. "God, Jon, that's so good."

Jon glances up at him. He looks lost in arousal. Tommy has to bend forward and kiss him, whatever the risk of setting Jon off.

Jon kisses like it's been days since the last time instead of minutes, seconds. Tommy wants to grab for him and pull him in; he wants to tip his head back and have Jon flush against him and Jon's hand confident and enthusiastic on his dick. Oh, God, it's so—it's _so_ good, Jon biting at Tommy's lip, his hand just the good side of rough. 

"So good," Tommy pants, "yeah, yeah, keep doing that."

Jon swears, and keeps going.

Tommy doesn't see that he should have to wait, now, when they both want this, when they both want him to get off and let Jon come. He wants that so much, God, he can't breathe for thinking about it. About Jon _waiting_ for him, about _letting_ him. 

He gets a hand on Jon's neck and holds him there, so even when Tommy can't concentrate on kissing him anymore, Jon's close, breathing on Tommy, pressing kisses to his jaw. "Fuck, I'm—Jon—"

Jon groans as though he's the one about to come, and that, Jon wanting it so much, loving it so much, pushes Tommy over the edge. He slams a hand on the bed and manages to stay upright, somehow.

Jon jerks him through it, panting against Tommy's skin, and Tommy gives himself a second to get his head clear—but only a second, because Jon is saying, quiet, desperate, "Tom— _Tom_ ."

Tommy pulls back on wobbly legs, looks at Jon properly, the tremor in his thigh, the way his underwear is straining. "Close?" he says, redundantly, still out of breath.

"I—I'm waiting," Jon says, halting, clearly trying so hard, and, fuck, it's so hot. It's _so_ hot.

"That’s so hot, Jon. This is—so good, you’re so good." Tommy doesn’t know what he wants, but Jon’s so gorgeously needy. "Suppose I tell you to come just like this, in your briefs, would you—"

"Fucking—anything, Tommy. Please."

 _Please_. God. It wrings another shudder out of Tommy, and Jon sees it, shudders too. 

"Don't come yet," Tommy tells him, and drops to his knees. Jon goes rigid, holding himself so still, and Tommy gets his hands on the waist of Jon's briefs, dips his thumbs under. Jon's breathing sounds painful, desperate. "Lift your hips," Tommy says, and Jon does, and Tommy drags Jon's underwear down his thighs, frees his cock. 

" _Close_ ," Jon chokes, and he is, visibly, strain in every line of him, his dick wet with need. 

"Almost," Tommy tells him, because this, this is what he wanted. He wants to see Jon come, wants to see everything. Jon's been so good, so devastatingly obedient.

He wants to taste, too, but not as much as he wants this view of Jon, straining to comply. He swallows, runs a hand up Jon’s thigh. 

Jon’s shivering, and Tommy’s pretty certain it isn’t from cold. "This is so good," he says. "You’re so hot, Jon." Jon’s devastating like this, dick jerking every time Tommy’s hand moves on his leg. 

"Okay," Tommy says, and then, to make it really clear, "Come for me." He runs a finger up the length of Jon’s cock and that’s all it takes, Jon gasping and come bubbling up from the tip.

Tommy fists his hand around it to jerk him through the rest, and watches Jon’s face, instead, screwed up with pleasure.

Jon looks unraveled when he's done, dick still twitching, come all over Tommy's fist. "So good," Tommy says, because, Jesus, he can't even think anything else; Jon's been—he's— "So good for me, baby," and it slips out but Tommy can't bring himself to care right now. 

"Tom," Jon chokes, and curls forward. Tommy lets him cling, wraps his arms around him. The room smells of sex and sweat and Tommy doesn't even care at all; something could be on fire outside and he wouldn't care, would just want to stay here, Jon in his arms. Tommy kisses his temple on a desperate impulse.

Jon pulls back just enough to kiss Tommy's mouth, slow and soft. Tommy revels in it for long minutes and then says, "Do you—should we lie down?"

"Yeah," Jon says, shifting backwards to make room for Tommy on the bed. The moment Tommy's laid out next to him, they're kissing again, and Jon's hands are warm and firm on Tommy's back. 

This feels like ... something, Tommy's pretty sure. Something more than friends with benefits. 

They draw to a stop, eventually, but Jon stays close, puts his cheek on Tommy's shoulder. There are a million things Tommy wants to say, and he doesn't know how to say any of them. He circles a hand around Jon's bicep instead, feeling the warmth of him.

Tommy's instinct is to close his eyes, breathe in and listen to Jon breathing too, the pair of them curled together on top of the comforter even though it's definitely too cold for that. He doesn't, though. He doesn't want to miss something, or misread it.

"So, uh," Jon says, in the direction of Tommy's feet, "thank you. For—not—not for the orgasm; that'd be weird."

"This, of course, isn't weird," Tommy says, because he's expected to, and feels Jon snort. Jon is still so _warm_. Tommy tugs him closer.

"For, uh," Jon says, pressing on, sounding stilted but earnest, the way he gets when he's grappling with something he knows but can't properly face, "—you were—you always... know what I need."

Tommy’d figured out it was working for Jon—the hard-on and the heavy breathing were good giveaways—but _need_ , that’s a whole other thing. It makes Tommy feel a strange mix of sexy and proud, and warm in the pit of his belly. He’d like to give Jon what he needs, not just in bed but—anywhere. Everywhere. 

"I was—mostly guessing," Tommy admits. "And doing stuff I wanted to do, and hoping you’d like it."

"I did," Jon says, "Uh, clearly." He laughs softly. "Really, though, um—that was—yeah, thank you."

Tommy doesn’t want thanks; he wants ... fuck. "Suppose we, like, went out to dinner tomorrow? Someplace kinda nice, maybe."

Jon makes an affirmative noise against him. "Sounds good," he says. He sounds like he's half asleep, which Tommy can't really blame him for. He waited a long time. He came a long time. It also means Tommy gets to feel firsthand when Jon runs that past himself again. "Like," Jon says, "like a ... date?"

Tommy is a grown man. He can have this conversation without feeling embarrassed. He _can_. His voice maybe thinks otherwise, because it comes out kind of hoarse. "Yeah. Like ... like that. Is that—"

"Yeah," Jon says, gratifyingly fast. "Yes."

Tommy feels stupidly giddy, like he’s 15 and asking a girl to homecoming. "Yeah? That’s, uh. Great, then."

"Sleeping is great," Jon mumbles. "We can define the relationship over breakfast."

Tommy laughs, can't help it. "Get under the covers at least, you'll get cold."

" _You'll_ get cold," Jon says, and doesn't move. Tommy tries to pry the comforter out from under him, with limited success.

"Fine, you big baby," he says. "Meet me under here when you get cold."

"Mm-hm," Jon agrees. His head's tipped towards Tommy, and Tommy watches him in the dim light from the window. He's so gorgeous, and so _familiar_. And he's maybe, possibly, Tommy's. 

Tommy's gonna make him a really, really good breakfast.


End file.
